


Rising Early

by getoffmysheets



Series: From Dusk To Dawn [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fantasy, Fawnlock, Gen, John Loves Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Sherlock Loves John, Spells & Enchantments, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5205776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmysheets/pseuds/getoffmysheets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a young fawn, Sherlock was lonely and tired of being criticized by other stagfolk. So he found a friend who was not like himself - a human child named John. </p><p>Mycroft is less than approving of his new acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rising Early

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, okay, I completely forgot to actually add the section that would earn this little tale its rating. Nice job, genius. It's been edited back in :)

When Sherlock was a young fawn, he found himself extremely lonely. His brother Mycroft was nearly a full-grown stag already, and he spent most of his time learning to govern the nonhumans and making the laws of the Great Forest. He had little time to humor his fawn-brother's desire for play.

And Sherlock did not want to be humored. He didn't want to be put up with. He wanted a playmate – someone who would want to spend all day running and exploring with him, who was not afraid to venture beyond the edges of the Great Forest. Mycroft had told the fawn not to go beyond his protection there, but he knew obedience was not one of Sherlock's virtues.

Mycroft blamed himself for what happened that day, because he knew that Sherlock didn't like to listen, and that his brother was equal parts furiously lonely and ferociously curious. He should have predicted that without providing him with either something or someone to occupy him, Sherlock would simply venture out and provide that for himself. But he would never have guessed whom Sherlock would chose for his companion.

The fawn had raced to the edge of the Forest, happy to escape the useless finger-wagging and criticism of his current minder. Sherlock didn't like to show it, but everyone's constant unhappiness with him hurt. According to the other stagfolk, he was too opinionated, too loud, too energetic, too smart, too thin...He couldn't face any of it, not for another minute – not with Mycroft busy negotiating an alliance with the harpyfolk and bearmen.

He ran to the edge of the meadow where the grass was pure gold, to the the silver-lined trees and out – until the colors were duller and muted, and the air had a strange, sickly scent upon it. When Sherlock looked over his shoulder, the Great Forest was behind him. He had finally traveled beyond the protection of his brother.

It was in this strange land Sherlock found himself in that he met the playmate he had so long desired.

The boy was a human-child a bit older than him with wheat-colored hair who wore dyed leaves of a strange texture. He gasped as Sherlock walked through the bushes, deep blue eyes going wide. “Mum was right!” he whispered with awe. To his surprise, the young boy held out a hand to him.

Mycroft had always told him that humans were cruel things, treating the man-beasts with either intense fear or intense hatred and sometimes both. The only reason they understood some English was its ability to be used as a common language among their kind.

But the boy's dark eyes were soft and welcoming. Their hands brushed and the boy whispered “Amazing,” He looked up through golden eyelashes. “My name's John. What's yours?”

Jawn. He liked that name. He liked it a lot. In his language, jawn was a weapon proven in battle and blessed by the gods. Sherlock smiled. Sadly, there was no word in English for the sound and scent of moonlight striking the frigid waters of the still winter sea, so he simply answered “Sherlock.”

John threaded their fingers together, his smile wide. “That's pretty. Sherlock.”

Sherlock grinned, tugging his new friend's hand. He liked the roll of John's tongue as he said his name. He didn't know a lot of English, but he knew enough to make himself clear, even if his pronunciation would be a bit odd. “Run!”

John was game enough. They raced and rolled through fields – John on two short sturdy legs and Sherlock on four tall ungainly limbs, stretching out into the sun when they were too exhausted to keep going anymore. John giggled at the way his four gangly legs stuck into the air, laying on his side and propping his head on his elbow. Tentatively, he gently touched the joint of one furry forelimb and stroked the tawny hair. Sherlock held his breath, certain that faced with such a strange aspect of his playmate, John would reject him. His own kind rejects him often enough – why on earth should someone from another species befriend him?

But John beams at him, fingers carefully stroking down the foreleg to the hoof that terminates it. “Brilliant – I never would have believed...just...amazing...” John's hand drops.

It's one of the most satisfying days of Sherlock's life and when he says goodbye to John at the end of the day (“When the sun is over the trees – there! I'll be back.” "Noon?" "Right.") he is humming with happiness.

He and his John are together for the whole summer, and into the fall. But Sherlock should have know his joy was to be short-lived.

It was deep winter, and already there was over a foot of snow on the ground.

Sherlock raced through the meadow with swift sure strides, plowing through the banks of snow with his forelegs. John rode on his dappled white back, laughing and making his bare human shoulders delightfully warm where he clung to them with mittened hands. (“Don't you need a coat? Aren't you cold?” “No, John. Not cold.”)

It was probably all of their laughing and shouting that drew Mycroft's attention.

Sherlock tripped on a rotted tree hidden beneath the drifts, sending him and John sprawling through the snow. The blond head popped through the field of white, still breathless with laughter, which abruptly died in his throat when he spotted the positively massive figure watching them with narrowed eyes out at the edge of their meadow. Sherlock's head whipped around to see what caused such a shift, and the smile was quickly wiped from his face, a blank expression taking over as his shoulders automatically straightened with a stamp of hooves.

In one powerful thrust of hindlegs, the stagman entered the clearing. Another leap and he was nearly within touching distance, hooves planted in the snow. Plumes of steam emerged from his flared nostrils in the freezing air as he stares down at the two of them. The massive antlers emerging from his head was enough to block out the weak winter sunlight as he loomed over them.

The human stood in front of Sherlock with one arm outflung behind him, as though he could protect Sherlock from him. He was slightly older than his little brother – fourteen winters, perhaps nearly fifteen. Old enough to make Mycroft question his suitability as a playmate even if he were a fawn rather than human being.

Sherlock had only just turned twelve winters, the small bumps of his starting antlers beginning to emerge from the mop of curls. He was young enough to still want to run and play and make up games. At fourteen or fifteen winters, the human was old enough to start wanting to explore the bodies of other hinds and stags - or whatever the ridiculous equivalent was for humans. 

His brother was desperately lonely and curious enough that talking him into something he wasn't ready for wouldn't be difficult. That they were separate species didn't cool Mycroft's concern one bit - they were still sexually compatible (though maybe not reproduction-wise) and the boy's willingness to befriend such a creature so strange from himself made Mycroft suspicious. 

Without bothering to speak so the human could understand, Mycroft stared at his brother standing stiffly behind the human and said "What is this, Sherlock?"

"I believe it's called a human, brother," Sherlock replied sarcastically. "Homo sapiens sapiens."

"You know very well that isn't what I was asking." He cocked his head and glanced over at the human boy. "You haven't Enchanted this child, have you?"

A violent red blush lit Sherlock's face. "I don't know how."

Well yes that was probably true. Magefolk - especially man-beasts - had to have quite a bit of allure to enchant another and Sherlock wasn't old enough or likeable enough to manage that on sheer will alone. "You realize that you cannot keep him." 

The displeasure that settled over Sherlock's face was nearly instantaneous. ''He's mine. He's my friend, and you don't get to just decide that he isn't."

''He could tie you up and take you far away from here, could do horrible things to you." Mycroft warned ''And I would never find you again."

''He won't," Sherlock argued ''John lo-likes me."

Mycroft's eyes showed the depth of his concern "Oh, Sherlock. He's a human. You don't really think that he loves you, do you? I'm not even certain that they can, Sherlock." 

"Maybe not, but I know that he wouldn't hurt me."

"Perhaps," Mycroft conceded quietly. "But I'm afraid I'll not allow you to take that chance, Sherlock."

Sherlock's lips parted, dark brows drawing downwards at the beginnings of a scowl. "What are you-?"

 The sentence died in his throat as a handful of dark mist left Mycroft's hand and caught John full in the face.

The blond boy jerked away, blinking his eyes fiercely. "l...wha.?"

"What did you do?!" Sherlock cried, horrified. John's eyes were glazed, his expression first stunned, then frighteningly blank. "Stop, Mycroft! Stop it!"

''It can't be stopped now, Sherlock," Mycroft said heavily, real regret coloring his voice. He waved an imperious hand in John's direction, silently commanding the child to return to his village, go back to his family and never return to the meadow where he had fallen asleep and dreamed such strange dreams.

As John turned his back, face slack and eyes empty, leaving the meadow without a word to his friend, Sherlock began sobbing "l hate you! l hate you! I'm never speaking to you again! He was my only friend! The only one who lo-liked me!"

''I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I am not going your safety on a common human." Sherlock flinched as Mycroft cupped one cheek, wiping the flood of tears falling diamond-bright from his eyes. "l am sorry, but you're too young to give your heart away at the first kindness. If you followed him into his world, there isn't anyone who would understand you and humans don't like anyone different from themselves. I've heard what happens to stagfolk like that, Sherlock. I don't want to see you perish from sorrow."

He continued to wipe the tears that rolled silently down his little brother's face. When Sherlock was finally quiet but red-eyed, Mycroft bent his forelegs to kneel before him."I'll tell you a secret, though. That spell can be broken, Sherlock," he whispered.

"But I don't know any m-magic." Sherlock hiccuped.

''That's the thing, brother. You aren't the one who can break it -only John can."

''How? He isn't magic, either."

"True love is magic itself, Sherlock. If John has it, he'll find you again, one way or another." 

He had believed, for awhile, that John would come right back. But now he was approaching thirty winters old, and if he were a hind, he'd be expected to have two or three fawns of his own by now. He had resigned himself to spending his life at the edge of his tribe, interacting with members of his clan only when Mycroft forced him to make an appearance. He was not happy, but he was content, at least, doing his research and learning about the forest and other beasrfolk. It wasn't until Midsummer Festival that what he'd waited for finally came to pass. He'd snuck away from the celebration in the village center to bathe in the moon-tree spring, finding his own company more relaxing than the press of bodies awaiting at the festivities. 

The quiet was interrupted by the visitor to the spring, lit by the flowers and the magic of Midsummer. 

Age had come to his John, stolen away the carefree innocence from his boyish features. Sherlock could see the marks battle had left in his stance and his gait. He was truly jawn now, tested in war and blessed by gods. He was didifferent, but Sherlock still knew him, even if John clearly did not know Sherlock. He knew his scent, and nothing could disguise those familiar eyes, even darkened by...lust? Truly? Could he really be desirous of his body, despite being so alien from his own? Sherlock had to draw himself up, taking a breath for courage. "John."

John sucked in a sharp breath at the sound of his name, licking his lips and wading into the water where Sherlock stood. He couldn't have stopped the soft sighs that left him at John's first touch. But there was one thing he wanted more than anything else.''Ki-kiss, John? K-kiss me?"

"Christ," John whispered to him, stroking his cheekbones with his thumbs and staring at his mouth. "Yes, you beauty. I'll kiss you."

Beauty? John thought he was beautiful...

Sherlock thought he was dying by the time John's mouth slid over his cock, laid out onto the wild silk-grass, trying not to embarrass himself by screaming out into the night and drawing attention to what the pair of them were doing. 

He had intended to offer the berries right away, after receiving the promised kiss. Even if John did not remember him yet, he had always possessed a good sense of awareness for the magic of the Great Forest. He felt confident that he would know what Sherlock offered. 

But Sherlock was overwhelmed by John's unabashed desire, his honest hunger and frequent praise. 

When he finally reached release, the stars were spinning dizzily in the heavens and in took him several long breaths to finally feel all six of his limbs and take control of his heart-rate. John was still touching him, murmured sweet words while stroking the soft, short fur of his belly on the cervid half of his body. It felt marvelous. 

When Sherlock held out his hand, the fate of his love resting in his palms, John's eyes were mischievous as he began sucking the fruit from his skin, the action reminding him viscerally of the other things that John could do with his mouth. 

At dawn, Sherlock assumed that his chosen mate would rise a stagman like him.

He had forgotten that John preferred to bypass all expectations. 


End file.
